


a mild fixation

by preromantics



Category: Music RPF, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M, Hand Kink, Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She's never really told anyone about her fascination with hands, palm lines and knuckles and moving joints, creating and doing without a second thought. No one has really noticed, either, as far as she knows -- no one ever brought it up, ever looked uncomfortable if they maybe caught her staring intently at someone's fingers sliding up a soundboard or down piano keys.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	a mild fixation

Something about hands has always fascinated Taylor -- her mother’s hands, helping her up if she fell as a little girl, her first crush’s hands, fingers wrapped tight in concentration around a pencil, forming imperfect cursive letters in straight rows. 

The fascination stuck through out her school years and now it’s maybe even intensified, with lingering gazes on the deft hands that go routinely through making her favorite drink at Starbucks, on artists lining streets in all the places she's had the amazing fortune to visit, singular brush strokes creating a cohesive whole, just like words about life stuck together to make songs. 

She's never really told anyone about her fascination with hands, palm lines and knuckles and moving joints, creating and doing without a second thought. No one has really noticed, either, as far as she knows -- no one ever brought it up, ever looked uncomfortable if they maybe caught her staring intently at someone's fingers sliding up a soundboard or down piano keys. 

It never mattered who the hands belonged to, really, though when she was younger Taylor started realizing she loved certain characteristics about hands -- she loved knuckles that stood out, pads of fingers that looked rough and well worn, long hands with short nails, obviously cared for despite all the signs of use. Working, creating hands. (John's hands, she doesn't particularly notice, except for how she does, fit 

John is the first person to notice, really notice, her fixation. Late at night, three days into being in the studio together, one in the morning after everyone has already left -- her favorite time, digital watch set to military standard so  _13:00_  shines bright at her face when she lets the watch face light up.

John stretches easy on the couch across from Taylor's chair, hands leaving his guitar halfway through a rough series of chords that formed something hard and dark and appropriate for the gritty light in the night of the little studio room. Taylor was half-listening, watching his hands across the strings instead, the curl of his knuckles around chord changes and the easy strum of deft fingers, so when he stops abruptly to stretch, sinking down into the well-worn hole in the middle of the couch that made it feel more like sitting in a nest of material than a normal couch. 

(Which is partly why Taylor had claimed the wing-back leather arm chair as her own over the past few days, the seat wide enough for her to curl her legs against the side or her own chest without her feet dangling down. It was comfy for when they all had take-out, various technicians and back-up band members sprawling out over the mismatched pieces of furniture in the tiny studio side room, John always in the center of the nest-couch, everyone full of an easy camaraderie that Taylor felt worlds away from. 

Taylor (maybe) also chose the chair because it was directly in front of the couch, close enough that sometimes her knees would knock against John's or whoever was sitting next to John during a break between recording or while they ate if she didn't have her legs tucked up. It meant she could watch John, fascinating as he was, somewhat like a very dull star in the night sky that, every once in a while, would catch some lucky star-gazer's eye with a twinkle of extra bright light, billions of miles away.

She could watch his facial expressions as he talked; sometimes seriously in big groups, but usually with words dripped in a dark sort of humor about life that made Taylor feel out of her depth. She had been through things, through a lot of things, but nothing like -- not like John. 

Mostly, though, she could watch his hands. Around chopsticks, stabbing at pieces of orange chicken with little controlled movements or messing around on his guitar like now, late at night when Taylor knew she should have left, there was no reason, really, for her to be sitting a foot away from John after everyone had left, his easy and sometimes loaded-smiles shaking her when she didn't expect it, keeping her rooted to her well-fitted chair.)

John laughs low, just once, the sound filling up the room around them. "Something like that," he says, though Taylor can't remember if it's been five minutes or fifty since they last said anything out loud to each other. 

"I know you weren't listening," John says, after a pause, setting his guitar off to the side of the couch and leaning forward, one hand reaching out as if to close the space between them, somehow. 

"I was listening," Taylor says, automatic, looking up at his face -- something intent in his eyes, gazing down at her bare legs, the goosebumps running visibly down them from the cool air in the room. 

John looks up at her, eyes crinkling up at the corners, mouth twisting at one side. "You aren't nearly as good as you think you are," he says. 

Taylor isn't sure what he means, in everything, in hiding her -- her gazes, fixation, whatever. She's good, though, she knows she is, just --

John reaches out all the way to close the space between his hand and her knee, fingers splaying all the way out across her skin, his fingertips hot and rough. 

"You stare," he says, amusement in his tone, "like you can't help it, not just me but at anyone -- so intently."

Taylor swallows, once, no one -- not ever --

"It's like you want someone to notice," he continues, his fingers rubbing small circles, hand dipping down as she watches (can't look away), curling down to the soft skin under the curve of her knee, sensitive and sparking hot down the rest of her leg, up. 

"I," Taylor starts, but doesn't know how to finish. She's never actively wanted anyone to notice, not really, never had the hands of someone she'd watched so intently on her with the same sort of marked intent that her own gaze had held earlier. 

John's hand continues down her leg, Taylor unfolding from her position in the chair reflexively, giving him more length, more skin to run his fingers lightly down until he gets to her ankle, wrapping them around and pressing in lightly.

Taylor holds her breath as she watches, warm heat spreading up her leg, her own hands curling into the arms of her chair, watching and waiting.

John pulls his hand back suddenly, curling his fingers in on his palm. "I can't," he says, quietly, startling Taylor entirely out of her thoughts, out of her watching.

Taylor doesn't curl her legs back up, one knee pressed against one of John's knees, almost against his thigh. She waits, though, seconds passing by like beats in her ears while she watches John sit back against the couch, lips curling up again into a strange twist of a grin, one arm thrown over his face when he tips his head back against the wall. 

"You -- you could," Taylor says, pleased when her voice doesn't sound like she feels at all, just a simple statement, maybe a little low in her own throat. 

John's lips twist at that, one hand running over his chin, the day or more worth of stubble standing out against his skin. He isn't looking at her, his arm over his eyes, or over his face enough that he's maybe just looking up at the ceiling, Taylor can't tell. 

"I mean it," Taylor says, after a pause, watching the curl of John's fingers in on themselves. She isn't the sort of person to hesitate on things, especially not now in her life. It hits her like something curled up in her chest splaying out, down her spine, hot inside, something like a fist spreading out. 

"You don't," John says back, wry, still not looking at her. "Look at yourself, and then look at me."

"Look at  _me_ ," Taylor says back. "I'm looking at you."

At that, John does sit up a little, looking at her almost fondly for a second, some brief flash of something on his face that turns darker. "You don't know what --" he starts.

Taylor cuts him off. "I do," she says, even though maybe she doesn't, a little, her knee going cold where the warmth of his hand had been only moments before.

The twist of John's mouth changes, slowly, his eyes narrowing, dark and strange and sparking warmth over Taylor's skin where she didn't even realize she was cold, just at the thought and the possibility of  _something_.

John leans over her in a quick movement, one hand traveling up her bare thigh until it reaches the folded hem of her skirt, his other arm sweeping around her waist, fingers splaying out against her spine, pressing her forward and off the chair until she gets the idea, standing with his hands still on her, urging her forward.

She falls over onto his lap, feeling long and impossible, straddling his thighs although she isn't sure that was the intent, not sure what any of this is, or even of her own intentions, only that she's watching John's hand on her thigh move up, hot on her skin to where she's hotter still.

It doesn't feel like a moment for a kiss, for tenderness or anything else Taylor can think of happening in the past. John is different, solid and warm under her thighs, the hair at the back of his neck soft where she's curled her hand around, pressing her fingers into the muscle there, urging, something. 

It's not a moment for a kiss, but John's lips drag suddenly down her neck, dry and a little rough, unexpected as his hand folds up her skirt neatly against her stomach for a moment before delving down, right against her through the cotton of her underwear just as his lips catch on her collarbone, his hand lost into the shadow between them that she can't see. 

She groans without thinking, at the press of his hands or the drag of his lips or the fact she can't  _see_  anymore, and she's never wanted to watch this part, not particularly, but something about John knowing makes her want to, and the fact that she'd been watching him for the better part of the past three days, waiting for something she didn't know she wanted this much until now. 

John laughs, open-mouthed against her throat, tongue darting out as he shifts the fabric under his fingers to the side, his other hand still pressing along the line of her spine, pressing her forward into his fingers, sliding slick against her now. "You want to watch," John says, still into her skin, bent farther down now, right at the slight swell of her chest at the low scoop of her shirt. 

She's almost bothered that he knows, wondering if she's really that obvious, if she has been for years, or if John just has somehow figured her out better and more quickly than anyone before. Except she isn't bothered at all, noises high in her throat, eyes closed so she can picture what she can't see, least of all what the expression on John's face must look like, watching and feeling her come undone on top of him. 

"Don't you?" John asks, although it's not really a question, half of the words a groan when Taylor presses down against the finger he slips inside of her, shifting her hips in small circles. 

She doesn't want to say it out loud, wouldn't even know how to admit to it outside of her head, but she groans high and tight, can't help it, not with a second finger curled nicely inside of her, the rough pad of John's thumb pressing over her clit each time she shifts her hips down, the feeling intensified with each pass because she can picture the roughness of John's hands perfectly, the short ends of his fingers deep inside.

John must take her groan as a yes, somehow, because he flips them both to the side, pressing her down into the arm of the couch so she's almost sitting up and spreading her thighs out with his hands on her knees, though she doesn't need much help. 

She rucks her own skirt up against her stomach, not bothering to imitate the neat, strangely careful folds John had made earlier, and lifts her hips up when one of John's hands lingers at her hip, at the top edge of lace on her underwear, leaving room for him to drag them down, bringing her legs together over his head for a moment so he can slip them off her ankle.

She spreads open for him, not looking when he settles in-between her thighs, running a finger lightly over her clit, barely touching, nothing like the seconds before when he'd had two fingers inside that she had practically been riding, and, oh --

"Look," John says, low and gravely, "come on."

She does, her toes curling into the couch when she sees, John grinning up at her in a dark sort of pleased way, fingers dipping down and pressing back inside as she watches, can't stop watching, can't not  _feel_ , and it's so much more intense than before. She watches his fingers press inside, feeling the drag she can't see and then their slide out, slick past John's knuckles as he twists back inside, his forearms flexing with it, thumb dragging back up to press against her clit on each thrust in again, all delicious pressure that she can feel everywhere, low in her stomach and deep inside. 

She comes on a panting breath, eyes glossed over to the point where she isn't even sure if she's seeing the motion of John's hand and fingers and arm at all, or if her eyes are closed and it's imprinted onto the back of her eyelids. Her thighs shake around John, trying to press her legs together to calm her nerves, the heat swelling inside of her, sparking over each nerve ending under her skin, but she just presses her knees up against John's upper arms in the way.

John undoes his fly while Taylor is still trying to count out normal breaths, and when she looks up at his face his mouth is set into a straight-lined, feral sort of grin as he looks down at her, taking himself in his hand -- Taylor can feel the movements, his elbow knocking against her still spread thigh on each of his upstrokes, though it takes her more than a minute to look down. 

His hand moves quickly, fingers curled around, palm slick with spit, maybe, or -- oh, with Taylor herself, the head of John's dick shiny and dark. Taylor reaches out once she figures out the angle, knocking John's hand out of the way in a motion that makes John laugh, maybe surprised, though Taylor doesn't look up at him. His laugh turns lower, though, almost a growl deep in his chest that Taylor can feel, curling her own fingers around him and stroking.

Her strokes are imperfect, she knows, watching the head of his dick slip out from her fist and then back in, using her thumb over the head, swiping the beads of precome there to help the slide of her fingers on each downstroke.

After a moment John shifts his hips, sitting up a little in front of her and reaching down to wrap his hand around her own, squeezing her hand harder around his dick and pulling, setting the pace faster and longer, and all Taylor can do is watch his hand around her own, their hands together, how her hand manages to look small under the splay of his fingers, his low grunts and harsh breaths reverberating through her, right back down between her thighs.

He comes on a joint upstroke, hand unwrapping over Taylor's to catch his come, Taylor stroking him through it because she's not ready to stop, still watching, her own toes curled back into the couch, and she thinks for a moment about knocking John's hand away so his come would dry against her upper thigh, maybe a little on her stomach, and flushes for it. 

John lets out a breath through his nose, long and soft, and Taylor knows he noticed her flush when he runs his free hand down her cheek bone, entirely too soft in contrast to the past however-long, Taylor's body almost shivering with the difference in touch. 

"How did you know?" she asks, not nearly as surprised at the grit in her voice as she supposes she should be, or at the way her legs are still spread underneath him, how she can already feel the want building up again, like maybe it had been there all along, all the times over the past few days she'd been watching John, watching his hands, wanting.

John doesn't answer her, not right away. He tucks a piece of stray hair behind her ear, just looking down at her, something calm in his expression that Taylor doesn't think she's seen before. "I think," he says, after a second, leaning down and out of her gaze only to pull at the hem of her shirt, pushing it up over her chest and brushing his lips down over the dip between her breasts in her bra. "I think maybe we're a little bit more alike that either of us thinks."

Taylor arches her back up towards his mouth without really thinking, letting out a soft, mostly breathless laugh -- at him or herself, she doesn't know, only that somehow John makes more sense than anyone has in a really, really long time, and that the trail of his hand down her hip where she can't see but can visualize almost perfectly makes more sense than anything has in a really, really long time, too. 

"Maybe this almost makes sense," she says, softly, though she's not entirely sure she meant to say anything out loud at all. 

The drag of John's lips stops, halfway up the curve of her breast and she can feel him breathe out. "It makes no sense at all," he says, hot against her skin until he looks up, right at her. "I don't care."

Taylor breathes in through her nose, suddenly wanting something to do with her own hands, wanting to drag John down by his neck and kiss him, or drag him lower, or roll them over or something because -- she doesn't really care, either, and it works.


End file.
